The forest now awakes, while stroke on stroke Falls on the hoary monarch of the wood, Now shaking ’mid the scions that have towered Beneath its shade for years. At length it falls, And with terrific crash, bears down to earth Each minor object that obstructs its way— Down on the verdant carpet that has spread Beneath its branches in the summer heat, Behold it lying like a warrior stern, Who, having grappled in the deadly fray, Has sank amid his fellows in his pride— But not to die, tho’ robbed of all its green, Still shall it in the lofty steeple live, Or in the battle-ship, whose thunder speaks The voice of freedom on her ocean way. The sail that wafts the admiral in his pride, By it is held to catch the willing gale, And on its giant breast the fabric rests, That bears the sturdy warriors of the deep, And floats them on in sunshine and in storm. Its branches to the cottage-hearth are given, And by the fire that feeds and grows on them The chilly air is changed to breath of spring. Food, shelter, comfort, from its fall proceed, And thousands bless the hand that laid thee low. Above the purple peaks that fringe the west The swollen clouds obey the tempest’s call, And rear their domes and battlements of mist, With turrets, barbicans, and spires of gold; Now changing into shapes of demon form, With wreaths of lightning twining round their brows, And now, like waves of darkness from old night, Scowling and breaking on the misty hills. A drowsy stillness steals along the plain, The leaves are motionless on every tree, The twitt’ring swallow glides along the ground, While the more cautious pigeon seeks the eaves. The geese that o’er the green so stately stalked, Take flight toward the west with heavy wing, And scream a welcome to the coming rain. The cattle from the hills come early home, And from the fallow ground the lab’rer turns, Long ere the hour of sunset, with an eye That reads the secrets of the heavens as well As though it opened first in Chaldea’s land. Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs, And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust; The town-returning wagon faster moves, And down the hill, and o’er the sandy plain, The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin; And while the plover whistles on the moor, The stage-horn breaks upon the startled ear. But, hark! the storm-drum beats the tempest charge; The groaning forest feels its rushing breath, And bends its yellow head to let it pass; The vivid lightning takes its errant way, While echoing, ’mid the sparkling balls of hail, Is heard the sound of its descending feet In thunder. The hail drops fearfully around, Strips the stout trees, and beats to earth the grain, Wounds man and beast amid the open fields, And strikes with deadly blow the wild fowl down.